


III

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Drama, Other: See Story Notes, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:36:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist





	III

## III

by Spyke

Author's website:  <http://www.geocities.com/spyke_raven>

I do not own the characters, I merely interpret them for no money at all.

Warning: Violence, m/m, f/f all hinted at. Blood.   
Only read if you're willing to give me a chance

Set in between season 1 'Rogue' and season 2 'Flight'

* * *

(...) 

The bed was midnight blue spangled with star-spots from the slowly revolving silver ball that hung from the ceiling. He'd set it into motion an hour ago, after touching the rough cotton bed sheets as if to memorize the fact that the appearance of silkiness had nothing to do with actual texture. Nothing at all. 

None of this was his choice, not the bedclothes, not the glittering silver ball, though to be honest he'd liked the way it looked in the night, slowly turning before his eyes, drawing him into sleep. Better than a nightlight, Les had said of the disco ball and then he'd agreed. He'd always agreed with Les who seemed to know better than he did what it was he needed. But he wasn't so sure now, and so he sat on the edge of the bed staring at the window while electric signs made strange patterns in front of his eyes. 

Les. 

God, he was so tired. Writing that letter had been the hardest thing he'd ever done in his life. Funny how hard it was to do something when you actually thought about it. Now that it was done however, and the paper neatly addressed, folded and placed prominently on top of his homework on the single desk in the corner he thought maybe he could just lie down and stop thinking for a while. Maybe sleep would come faster if he closed his eyes even though he couldn't remember the last time he'd actually done that on this bed. Seemed more like night after night he'd lain awake looking at the silver thing moving, star-spots and warm soft breathing at his side so comforting he didn't dare close his eyes and miss a second of it. Les and he, alone and together, silver flashing silently in the dark above them. It had been so perfect. 

Les. 

Electric blue and pink light alternated through the blinds. He blinked, afraid to turn away from them, afraid that if he did lie down, just him alone, the bed would be too big and would swallow him up. 

_Les_. Les' arm flung over into his half of the mattress, Les' elbow cushioning his head. The hurt in his heart was so deep he had to look at the towels encircling his wrists, wondering when it was the pain had moved and trying to see in dim multi-colored light if too much blood had soaked through, ruining them. The towels seemed okay and maybe if he lay on the bed he wouldn't ruin the sheets. If he ruined the sheets Les would - but Les wouldn't, and that made him want to cry again, though he'd never allowed himself to cry before this evening. He figured he was allowed, that approaching death gave people permission to do things. 

Some things. 

_Les._

In a sudden hot blinding rush of tears he rolled over and yes, the bed was too big and the sheets scratched his face, refusing to absorb moisture. He buried his head in the fabric anyway, feeling hot breath escape in place of screams. No screams, just silence. He had no voice left, nothing left. If this were a movie, at the last minute Les would walk in - surprise! - and they would live happily ever after. Except it wasn't. And he didn't deserve to. So he muffled screams and waited for it to be over. Towels tried to fall open but he'd bound them tightly. He wouldn't stain Les' sheets. 

_Les, I ..._ and he found himself waiting even though he knew there would be no reply. Waiting in a silence that seemed so long and loud that in final desperation he reached out towel-swathed hands for the razorblade on the nightstand to make absolutely certain. 

He needn't have bothered. It only ruined the bedclothes and caused him unnecessary pain. But at least it blotted out memories for his last few moments, for by the time the blood flowed down his neck and pooled at his turtleneck, unconsciousness prevented him seeing the silver revolving ball come to a halt. 

The letter on the table had a single name on it, no address. Just 'Les'. He'd figured whoever it was found it would figure out why soon enough. So he slept deeper, fading away on midnight sheets, wishing only at the last that Les was there to put a blanket around him. It was getting so very cold. 

(I) 

Nice girls who want to stay nicely in the big cities play by certain rules. Take public transportation but not too late at night. Careful with cabs. Walk in groups, or take well-lit paths. Walk wide around corners so you can see who's coming. Carry mace. Use a cell phone. Never ever take sweets from a stranger. Use a condom. And so, the legend goes, nice girls grow up and marry princes charming so they can tell their own nice, sweet girls about the many rules of the big cities. 

Nice girls don't get their faces slashed and then pushed out of seventh floor windows, especially if aforesaid windows belong to Club Doom, where Narc and Vice squads have been hanging around for years, tongues lolling, just _begging_ for a lead and enough evidence to shut the place down. 

Serena Chang, newbie, had had twenty riding on suicide. Carolyn had minor qualms about taking her money. Only minor qualms, the move to 'Frisco was draining more of her savings than she had expected. So she'd not told her soon-to-be successor to get a district map and memorize area codes until _after_ the money was in her pocket. 

The photographer blinded her momentarily. Carolyn winced and looked away. 

"Take a look at this." Serena was pointing to the debris around the body. Lipstick cases, smashed compact mirror. The ground glittered with broken glass. Carolyn picked her way through the mess carefully. 

"She jumped with her purse." 

"Prada," Serena said. "Pity. Even if it is fake." 

Sleek leather mocked her words. Carolyn looked over the body, past the yellow cordon and buzz of officers preventing the crowd from spilling into the protected area. Behind her the walls of Club Doom resonated in time to some song that sounded like all the songs they always played. There was the occasional hammering coming from the other side of the door. They'd locked it from outside. It seemed a lot simpler than the alternative. 

"Excuse me," The photographer got their attention. They stepped to the side while he finished snapping away, donning light gloves and taking out zip-lock bags. 

"Five bucks says we find identification in the wallet." 

"Easy money," said Carolyn. "No deal." 

A bubble of Dom Perignon tickled her nose. They'd been at dinner, Forensics either celebrating or mourning the passing of the Plummer era. Around the third glass things had gotten a bit hazy. The call in had sobered them all, murder's better than coffee for doing that, but a little high never hurt anybody, in fact it even helped when one had to pack away someone, someone possibly even pretty and young. At least the half of her face that was still hanging onto her skull seemed pretty. Pretty young to be this dead. 

She wasn't dressed too much like a slut for this area. You got a lot of college kids coming down and making a weekend of it, slumming with the lowlifes. If they were lucky they got a hangover, got stiffed by hookers and didn't buy whatever was being pushed on the floor. If they were unlucky, someone sliced their face to ribbons and pushed them out of windows. 

Hooker or college-girl. Fifty-fifty. 

"You should have taken my bet," Serena said, holding up the black wallet hidden inside the purse. 

"Nothing?" 

"Nada." 

"Check for an address book." Carolyn looked over her shoulder, towards the corner of the building. Her ex-husband was patting his curly haired sidekick on the back. Apparently Sandburg had finished being sick. She noticed Jim seemed a little green too, possibly something to do with the fact that everyone who came out the back way paused to make the asphalt a better place. 

"Not bad," Serena said, holding a small notebook between thumb and forefinger. 

"I'm psychic," Carolyn replied, still turned away. Jim and Sandburg were in earnest consultation, Jim's arms waving slightly, Sandburg's hands still pressed to his temples. 

"Remind me not to bet against you again." 

"I need the money." 

After a moment she looked back into her colleague's eyes. 

"Good thing we had a man on the spot, huh?" Serena said. 

"Yeah." Carolyn swallowed something that didn't taste like champagne. "Good thing." At least Sandburg had dialed Jim _before_ being sick. 

Serena held out the book so she could see. "Leslie Conran, Apartment E-14, corner of 36 and Elm." Carolyn took it from her fingers. Someone had written "Home" in front of the address and "Birthday" in front of a date. 29th July 1979 in neat purple marker. Jesus. 

"Somebody's going to have to try the address." Serena nodded towards the corner. "I know this isn't strictly Major Crimes' jurisdiction, but do you think...?" 

"He's the man on the spot isn't he?" Carolyn didn't wait for an answer but walked quickly towards Jim before she thought about it. Tapped him on the shoulder. 

Jim turned around, eyes widening slightly as he recognized her. "Hey. Thought you were - off duty." 

"Officially I still have another 30 seconds." She gave him the address book. 

"Leslie Conran," Jim read aloud then asked Blair, "You know her?" 

"No." Blair turned slightly paler, then turned entirely, dry-heaving. "'m okay," he muttered between spasms. 

Carolyn waited till Jim shifted his eyes back to her, or at least above her head. "The photographer's done if you want to take a look," she said. 

His eyes snapped forward. From the corner of her eye she saw Blair straighten slightly. 

"Thank you," Jim said. 

"Don't mention it," she replied politely, feeling about as old and sick as Sandburg looked. Don't mention why you can hear voices overlaying on tapes, don't mention how you can hear a bomb in the basement of a building crawling with SWAT, don't even _bother_. 

Twelve hours and she was out of here. Out. Of here. 

"So you coming to do your thing or what?" She turned on her heel and walked back to Serena, aware that he waited till Blair waved him away before following. 

"She had good taste in cosmetics," Serena said as she reached. "Maybelline." 

Maybelline. Apartment in a not entirely indecent area. Certainly not the suburbs but still not the first place you'd associate with Club Doom. No prizes for guessing what this seventeen year old did for kicks. 

Old, old story. It's a way to make easy money. No pimp. Parents probably think the kid's studying late or something. Hope the kid's studying late. Then one day they get the call. 

Serena glanced up. "Hey Jim." 

"Hey." He squatted down next to her. "What've we got?" 

Carolyn watched as they spoke, paying no attention to the actual words. The kid's face was best left alone. It was the hands that mesmerized her, fingers splayed against asphalt as though she'd just fallen down and ouch, would now be getting up. 

Ouch. 

Pretty shiny false nails dotted in silver stars that had split open on impact. Carolyn's eyes traveled down south to opaque stocking-ed legs demurely twisted under a silver skirt. Skirt. 

Carolyn tilted her head. Ah. Thought about saying something to Serena then figured she'd better not. Let her find out her own way, or maybe she was wrong. Her hunches sometimes were. Either way it still made sense to just stand by and let them do their thing. Officially, anyway, she had no part to play here anymore. 

Warm alkaline breath on the back of her neck as Blair Sandburg came up behind. She thought about saying 'don't be sick all over the body now, we're gathering valuable forensic evidence', but then it wasn't her call anymore but Serena's. She shifted her shoulders slightly, still uncomfortable. Felt and heard the man hiss between his teeth, his still sour breath ghosting over the nape of her neck. Carolyn shifted again, dislodging a pebble from the gravel under her feet. 

Jim turned ever so slightly, angling his face so Sandburg was almost in his line of sight. As if that were a signal, Sandburg moved forward past her, "Excuse me" and stood just a little in front of her. 

"...traces on her palms, looks like she was trying to cover her face..." Jim continued like he hadn't noticed, but some sort of tension went out of his body. Carolyn watched as they completed the preliminary examination and stood up to let the body be taken away. 

If they were lucky, there would be skin under the victim's nails that belonged to the perpetrator. If they were lucky there would be someone in the club who remembered seeing a pretty young thing in sleek red and who might be able to identify her companion. 

Yeah right. 

"Someone's got to inform the family," Serena said, and Jim nodded, passing a weary hand over his jaw and looking at Blair, his glance catching Carolyn only in passing. 

"You sure you haven't seen her around?" 

"It's not like I'd recognize her face," Blair said and Jim only replied mildly, "Okay then," but it seemed to calm the nervous edge in Sandburg's tone. 

Jim reached into his pocket and took out a handkerchief. Waited for a nod from Serena before casting it over the ruined face. "Let's go," he told Blair and started walking. Stopped and grinned wryly at Carolyn. There were lines in his face that she supposed were echoed in hers too. 

"Hell of a way to spend your last night in town." 

"I've had worse," she answered. After a moment his smile sobered. 

"Take care," he said gravely. 

"Yeah." She didn't bother watching them walk away, just moved up to Serena, who was watching them bundle up the corpse. 

"What a way to end the party of the year." 

"I've had worse," Carolyn said. 

"At least..." Serena said. 

"What?" 

"At least we're not going to have a problem getting the autopsy done tonight." 

"At least." Carolyn agreed soberly, thinking 'we?' The last of the Dom Perignon was wearing off. Suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea. But she hadn't even thought, just said, "I'm coming with you" and taken refuge in the smile that had lit up Serena's face. So now she was here. And it didn't seem like such a good idea after all. 

"Coming?" Serena called back. 

"Yeah." Carolyn said and felt a bubble pop just under her nose. 

== 

The club interior was smoky and the walls still reverberated with dying thumps of music. Snake rows of people stretched out in the darkness, their eyes riveted on him. He felt their gazes and flinched slightly, making his way through the crowd. Whispers erupted and subsided all around him, intermittent geysers. 

If he were as good as Blair seemed to think he might be, he'd have smelled the killer on the body and be able to identify the scent if the person were still present, maybe even follow it like a dog. Instead his only clue was a Polaroid of a tattered face and his nose felt like it was glued shut. Around the fragile mental barrier he felt scents and sounds trying to get in. Battering but not succeeding. 

Smoke and the underlying hint of something sweet - Jim found he could identify stimuli as long as he kept them at a distance. The bartender looked at him silently. 

"Know a Leslie Conran?" 

The man shook his head. 

Jim tried again. "Girl in red." He held up the Polaroid. It wasn't a bad shot. The photographer had positioned it so that what with the shadows, the face looked almost whole. Old. Older than he suspected the kid was. 

"Never seen her before." 

Jim nodded. "Got a pen?" Turned around and raised his voice. 

"Names and addresses, people, before you go through that door." Looked at the bartender. "And a bottle of mineral water." 

"We don't keep bottled water." 

"What do you dilute the drinks with? Don't tell me. Soda?" 

He kept the soda for Blair who was hopefully washing most of the gunk out of his shirt right now. After a minute or two, people shuffled forwards in groups of two or three to give up their names and addresses. He didn't bother asking for ID after the first fifty. 

Smoke and sweat and decomposing deodorant. After five hundred entries the pen ran out. Luckily that was when his relief arrived. Beaming. 

"Ellison!" Arms wide open and a huge, dick-sucking grin. 

"Are they always like this?" Blair asked as they were driving away, leaving two solemn-faced patrolmen and meters of yellow tape to guard the area. 

"When they're exceptionally happy, yeah." 

"I don't get it." 

"I was the detective on the scene and strictly speaking this is a homicide so," 

"You get it." 

"It happens. Every department has too many cases on its plate and most of them stay unsolved. Looks bad on the records." 

"So they shift it onto another department's plate." 

"It's okay." And he'd be shifting some of his stuff onto Vice soon enough, oh yes he would, in fact he thought he knew just the case... 

Damn. Jim blinked out of the window and adjusted the rear-view mirror. Didn't help. He still saw too much of the road. 

It didn't take a genius to realize his occasional spasms of sensory irresolution were psychosomatic. For a moment he looked over at Blair and considered telling him to drive. Reconsidered as the kid took another swig of soda. 

"You don't have to come with me," he said. Blair's eyes flickered over him, maybe a 'what, don't you think I'm tactful enough' until it was overshadowed by reality. 

"I won't," Blair replied. "I'm only here because I needed a lift." 

"Want me to drop you home first?" 

"The apartment's on our way back isn't it? I'll just wait here while you go on up." 

"Okay." 

"I'm not going to wuss out on you," Blair said with sudden intensity. Jim looked at him a second. 

"Okay." It came out slightly better than he'd expected it to. Blair grinned and offered him the bottle. 

"Want some?" 

Jim looked at the wet rim, tiny drops of saliva and soda coalescing, forming a slick layer. As if magnetized, his eyes were drawn to Blair's wet open mouth. 

Jim shuddered. "No, thanks." And took the next left. 

The building was completely dark, the only illumination the streetlamp under which he'd parked. As he looked up it flickered slightly. 

The air was mildly cleaner, only deteriorating garbage and the smells of an old building. Jim inhaled reflexively, trying to replace the memory of the kid's blood with something less... overpowering. 

"I'm coming up with you," Blair said. Jim only nodded, getting out of the pickup. 

Coke cans and brittle cups cracked under their feet as they walked up the stairs. Jim stopped at the third landing. 

"What?" Blair asked. Jim broke into a run. 

They had to break down the door. The blood smell was strong enough to overwhelm Blair who winced and halted at the door. 

The kid had made a bad job of it, slashing his throat when just the wrists would have been enough. He lay in a pool of mingled body fluids, stinking. His face however was surprisingly clean. 

Jim thought of the Polaroid in his pocket and looked away. 

Bedroom, living space and kitchenette connected by open doors and surprisingly clean. There was a desk in the corner, near a door that Jim surmised led to the bathroom. The table was piled high with books. 'Intermediate Biology', 'Springer on Math'. Bound copies of the Reader's digest. Homework. And a letter, neatly folded, addressed to 'Leslie'. 

"Jim. Jim!" 

He looked back at Sandburg and shook his head. Moved to the corner and felt for his handkerchief which, he remembered, was on some other kid's face. 

"Got a clean one?" 

Blair looked at him then patted down his pockets, coming up with a packet of facial tissue. "Will this do?" 

"Thanks." Jim used it to pick up the letter, feeling for his cell phone with the other hand. Scanned the closely written top sheet before dialing a number. 

Carolyn picked up on the other end. "Forensics." 

"I think," said Jim, carefully hiding his surprise, "we have a confession." 

"Then why're you calling - oh." 

Oh. Yeah. 

Momentary hesitation as she asked, "Should I - send a team over?" but then hung up after Jim said no. 

Movement at the door and Jim shifted focus, still holding the paper gingerly as if it were about to burst into flames any minute. After a moment he placed it in the pocket of his jacket. 

"No?" Blair asked, rubbing his arms. Jim noticed his shirt hadn't dried yet. Must have taken some scrubbing. 

"No," said Jim, stepping out of the bedroom and into the tiny living space. "There's no need to send forensics over." Just the body bags. 

Blair looked at him pointedly and Jim felt the papers crisp against his skin. Might as well have been for all the difference the layers of clothing made. 

"You may as well wait outside," Jim said. "I'm going to have to look over the area." 

"I'll wait here," Blair said, letting his arms fall to his side. 

"Wait outside," Jim said. "Please." 

After a moment Blair nodded. 

It took Jim roughly thirty minutes to finish what he had to do. Then he used some of the tissue paper to clean the boy's right hand and check for pen calluses before imprinting lax fingers on the fresh suicide note. 

"Done?" Blair looked up as Jim came out of the bedroom. Jim paused, calculating angles and line of sight before nodding his head. 

"Done." Held up the letter between thumb and forefinger. Heard the soft roar as the clean-up crew arrived below. 

In his pocket three sheets of paper crisped, jostling with stained tissue. It was only his imagination that they crackled loud enough for anyone to hear. 

"So why'd he do it?" Blair asked almost brightly. 

"You can read it later," Jim said. "After forensics copies it." 

It wasn't exactly a lie. 

(II) 

"You know Narcotics is going to be really upset." 

Carolyn shrugged. "It did seem too good to be true. An actual murder on the premises." 

"Hmm." Serena moved her chair lightly, back and forth across the floor. She'd greased the wheels, Carolyn noted. Already it didn't squeak as much as it used to. 

"Maybe the chromatograph will give them reason to shakedown the place," Carolyn offered. 

"It's a hope." 

"Yeah. It's a hope." 

Serena stopped moving her chair. "I'm sorry," she said, with the lightning change of topic Carolyn was coming to accept as part of her personality. "Is it hard for you, being in the office." 

Carolyn looked around before answering, "Not really, no." Then added, "Just... what a way to end the evening." 

"Tired?" Serena asked softly. 

"Tired." 

Serena picked up a pen and put it down. "Maybe you shouldn't go home tonight. With all your stuff packed and..." 

Carolyn stopped herself from wincing. 

Serena laughed self-consciously and looked up, all honesty and directness. "I'm not very good at this. But if you don't want to be alone tonight..." 

"I think I should be," Carolyn answered, still warmed by the offer she'd been expecting all evening. Warmed and yet chilled. 

She shivered, hoping Serena wouldn't notice. But she did. Her face changed, after a while asking politely, 

"So you fly out tomorrow. Excited?" 

"Not really." Carolyn stood up and held out a hand. "Thanks for letting me in on this evening." 

"I appreciated the help." Fingers touched coolly and Carolyn would have let it go except Serena was slipping her fingers through first. So Carolyn held on, trying not to notice the confusion on the other woman's face. 

Words, she had to find words. "I just want you to know that... I think you'll do very well in forensics." 

"Thank you," Serena said. Actually managing a smile. 

"Look me up if you're ever in town." 

"I will." 

Carolyn pushed against the chair on her way out, hesitated and then turned back. "And... I just wanted you to know. It's nothing to do with you, just... one night. I can't do that anymore." 

"Hey," Serena said softly, smiling a smile, a real one. "You don't have to explain." 

Carolyn shrugged. As lies went, she'd told better ones for worse reasons. "Take care." 

"I will. You too." 

"Yeah." 

"Carolyn?" 

"Yes?" 

"Good luck." 

As goodbyes went she'd had worse. But better not let this be the record. 

== 

After questions and more questions and a call in to Simon - 

"A homicide and a suicide in one night Jim? Jesus, don't you ever sleep?" 

  * promising to fill in all the paperwork tomorrow, neither of them were much in the mood for talking over the evening. Jim was too conscious of the papers in his jacket, too aware that he had to prevent his hand from slipping in ever so often to check on them. So when Blair said an absent-minded 'good night' and locked himself in his room, Jim decided he'd rather collapse into bed than take a shower and fall unconscious on the bathroom tiles. 



The undertone of blood and fear-sweat seemed impregnated into his clothes so he stripped naked, wiping himself clean with a towel and burying that too beneath a pile of laundry. The filters he'd imposed on himself seemed to work, but even as he fell facedown on the mattress and started drifting off, he had a feeling he knew what would come next. 

Smoky days, gray days when the trees rained water, big fat drops slopping off huge leaves and there was nothing to do but go mad sitting in Incacha's little hut. He would run those days and come back, shivering and soaked to cough himself dry at Incacha's fire. He'd have died of pneumonia if his grasp of Quechua had been the slightest bit better. 

"Your spirit wishes to run, Enqueri, not your body," 

but he'd only understood the words later, when it was too late for him, actually in the dream, his body high on red root and Incacha's droning tones; his spirit-self sometimes hunter, sometimes hunted, stalking, running. 

Dreams were important, necessary somehow in a way he never understood, so of course sometimes they scared the shit out of him. This dream for example, he'd been expecting it so he wasn't entirely surprised when it happened, just a subconscious, 'did it have to be today' before slipping into soft gray focus. When he thought about it in waking terms, he figured the story had to be that someone had cremated him and the fingers running through his ashes were sifting leftover bone and particulate matter, occasionally holding a larger fragment up to the light in order to see what became of Jim Ellison. It didn't need a degree in psychology to figure out, especially since these dreams had only started since - well, since Brackett had tried to make him misuse his sentinel abilities. Getting rid of latent anxiety had never been something Jim was good at. 

_Your spirit knows when it needs to run, even if your body refuses._

He had always had genderless dreams, had always been able to slip between unidentified bodies and personas easily, but somehow tonight the dream was clearer. He was convinced that what he saw was someone _else_ sieving the remains of Jim Ellison, someone _other_ than he, looking for a name or address, something engraved bone-deep to establish his identity. Even in the depth of dreaming, that disturbed him and he clawed upwards, trying to remove himself from the situation, both disgusted and disturbed at the thought of someone pawing through his core. 

He latched onto the first stimulus that could bring him out of sleep. His cell phone. Sweat dried on his skin as he pushed off his sleeping mask and reached out for the ringing instrument. 

The screen glowed green. He didn't recognize the number. 

"Jim it's me, Carolyn." 

Air cooled, eddying above patches of wet. Jim wiped his face with his free hand. "Carolyn, how are you?" 

"Fine. I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" she didn't wait for an answer. "I just thought you'd be busy all of tomorrow and I'm leaving early, so I just wanted to say goodbye." 

For a second Jim wished he were back in the dream. Then, 

"I just wanted to wish you luck, Jimmy. And," 

"...Carolyn?" 

He could hear her swallow, reached out for what he knew came next, her fingers plucking restlessly at her dress, the bed sheets, twisting and turning fabric, picking the threads out of the weave as if they were words. 

"I just... hope you know what you're doing. With Sandburg. I just hope you... know what you're getting into. Not that it's any of my business," 

"Carolyn - " 

"Take care of yourself, Jim." 

He was very glad she'd interrupted him. He had no idea what to say to her now. 

"I love you. Take care of yourself." 

Right here, right now, it wasn't entirely true. So for the sake of what had been, Jim lied a little. 

"Love you too, Caro. Don't be a stranger, okay?" 

"I'll write," she said, a small broken sound that could have been a laugh, could have been goodbye. She hung up, so Jim figured it was goodbye. 

The dial tone rung in his ears until the phone grew heavy and he had to put it down. 

I just hope you know what you're getting into - 

Jim got out of bed, put on a dressing gown and found his jacket. Took out three pieces of paper and walked downstairs without thinking too much about it. 

Blair shot up as he entered his room. 

"Wha - Jim?" The bedside lamp came on. "Jim?" he was reaching for his glasses. 

"Here." Jim held out the letter. "I want - I think you should read this." 

Blair looked at him strangely then took the letter. Read the inscription on the cover and only said one word. 

"Forgery?" 

"It's one of my lesser known talents." Jim sat down on the edge of the bed and Blair drew up his legs to give him more space. 

"I suppose your sentinel abilities allow you to mimic handwriting with fewer discrepancies than - " 

"You're stalling. Read it." 

With a last incredulous look at Jim, Blair did. 

**(III)**

He'd known it wouldn't be Les who read the letter, but it seemed important to address it that way, because... because. Because Les had been his only family. The only family he remembered. The only person he'd ever loved. And he wanted whoever was reading the letter to know that. That Les was the reason he had to write this down so the world would know and prevent it happening to anyone else. Even though no one had stopped what had happened to them, perhaps that was only because no one knew. If he wrote it down, then people would know. And maybe they'd go looking and see if there were any other kids locked up in dark, lonely cages just like he had been, forced to listen as their other halves had been beaten. Tortured. 

To 'stimulate their senses'. 

'Father' the man had called himself, but Leslie remembered their real father and mother and had held him tightly, passing him the knowledge. It was because they were twins, 'Father' had said, that was why they could know things just by looking, sometimes touching. Sometimes they didn't even need to touch. He hadn't even been in the room when Les had been... 

The man had been pleased. It had proved to him that they could both be trained. 

But Les had never developed the madness, Les had protected and kept him safe, and it was Les who finally got them out, just before he became too sick and too weak with all the voices in his head. Les was the smart one, and had told him later that he wasn't mad, just able to hear things other people couldn't. It was a gift, Les said, but he didn't see how it could be such a gift when it made him hear the voice he loved screaming, crying or in pain too great for him to want to go on living. 

But Les told him to keep on living, so he did, and Les figured out a way to use his 'gift' to help them get away. Les stayed smart and survived it all. Got them out, siphoned enough of 'Father's' money into some electronic account to keep them safe and alive. He hadn't wanted to survive, but Les had told him to, so he did. 

Les had also told him that the things he remembered hadn't actually happened, but then Les told so many lies. And sometimes he needed to believe those lies. If it made Les happier to remember that it hadn't happened to him, then that was fine, anyway they were twins and what happened to one affected the other. Or so 'Father' had said. 

But they got away. Les found a place in a city far away and made sure they both got there. He couldn't remember exactly how it happened, though he would scream at night sometimes and roll into Les who'd hold him and pat his back and tell him it was okay, they were safe now. 

He'd known Les was lying but then there were some lies he too needed to believe. Except deep down, he couldn't. They would never be safe. People would always be looking for them. And he knew with fierce, unshakeable certainty that he would die before letting Les fall into their hands again. Even if Les didn't remember, he remembered enough for the both of them. And it was his duty to protect them both. The man called 'Father' had said so. He hadn't always lied. 

Les who stroked his forehead and held him close, comforting warmth, Les who never let him wake up alone again, Les who kept the voices from his head... he would protect Les and die trying. Because without Les he would go mad. So many voices. Earlier when he'd been weaker and not remembered much, it was easy to ignore them. Later, even though Leslie shushed him and stroked the hair back from his forehead, the voices would enter his dreams and wake him up screaming and sometimes that happened in public where people might see them. Might remember them. Might _notice_. So they moved from city to city, place to place. To stay safe. To stay very, very safe. 

They would never be safe. And it broke his heart to know it was his fault, stupid dumb him who'd forgotten so many things he couldn't even remember which one of them it was that the things had _happened_ to. 

To be very, very safe, Les said finally, to make sure no one even looked at them and saw who they were - 

Twins. 

_Special_

  * Les became a girl. Not his brother, his _sister_. _Leslie_. He'd never thought of it as a girl's name, never realized what Leslie meant until he saw his brother with dyed hair and a wig until it grew long enough, forest of tumbling curls that fell over his hand and let him breathe their perfume. 



He'd never realized how beautiful Les could be. Never realized that people would still. Notice them. Not until he saw how beautiful Les - Leslie could be. 

"That's the point," Leslie reminded him patiently, "They remember a boy and a girl, not two guys." 

He'd been sick at the time and it had seemed like the best idea. It had been the best time in his life because beneath the curls and the clothes and the dab of makeup it was still his Les - 'call me Leslie', Les would remind him kindly and he'd repeated the lesson, engraving it on his heart. _Leslie_. Beautiful, brave Les-lie. Some lies he'd always needed to believe. Believing this one he'd grown a little bit stronger. 

Strong enough to walk out sometimes and he had... begun to laugh again, a little. Real laughter, not the kind he used to make Leslie smile; pretending everything was okay and they were safe. Sometimes he could have cried because he was becoming better and stronger and soon it would be he protecting Leslie the way it was meant to be. But he didn't let himself cry, because otherwise Leslie would stop smiling. And Leslie was so beautiful when he - she smiled. 

Leslie had smiled and taught him a little everyday, saying, 'we can't let your brain go to waste' and sometimes talked of things like college that were good dreams to have but he'd never thought they could become reality. Some things were just too good to be true. 

He'd never wondered what would happen when their money ran out. Stupid dumb he. But Leslie had said it was okay, for a while it would be okay to let Leslie take care of it all. Stupid dumb he who'd needed to believe the lie. It would never be okay and the first few times he smelled it on Leslie, he didn't say anything because that was part of the fever dreams, the bad times and Leslie had promised they were safe. 

And he needed to believe Leslie. Except they weren't and they would never be and he had been stupid to believe in a lie. 

It was for him that Leslie started - 

And he wasn't worth it. His life hadn't been _worth_ it. He'd promised himself that he'd never let Leslie suffer the same way again. He'd promised he'd die before allowing that to happen. So he'd kept his promise and perhaps he'd gotten a little mad because what was between himself and Leslie was between _them_ and Leslie shouldn't have... he _shouldn't_. Be beautiful. For anyone else. 

But he had been. And even if he knew why Leslie had allowed it, he _shouldn't_ have. 

Anyway... 

Anyway, it made sense now that things should be balanced and anyway there was really no reason for him to keep on living. It had been Leslie who had wanted him to. So really, well, that was all. 

He'd read the letter through and corrected his spelling mistakes, wondering if he should copy it out in fair but deciding he didn't really want to waste much more time. He'd thought that without Leslie, the voices would come back and drown him. Except they stayed away and now it was silent, silent and dark inside his head. He really didn't want to be alone again, reaching for a voice he could no longer hear. So he wrote one last thing before reaching into his pocket for the razorblade still sticky with Les. 

Leslie was the best brother anyone could have had. His only family, the only one he'd ever loved. He may not have been able to protect him, but at least he wouldn't allow Leslie to go on living with what he had to. He just wanted whoever was reading to know that. In the end, that was why. 

== 

Night traffic roared quietly below; the loft an island struck by intermittent waves. Jim made tea in the silent kitchen, conscious that he was keeping an ear out for Blair, trying to see if he was muttering under his breath. But Blair read silently. Jim had no idea how fast. 

He had no idea how long it took Blair to read something. Or even how he'd interpret things. 

His senses. Jim considered them a curse. Blair interpreted them as a gift. 

No, he really had no idea. 

Sound of a breath inhaled and Jim anticipated the re-reading of the last few lines. 

_Leslie Conran was the only family I ever had. He was my brother and my best friend. It's my fault he died. But that was a long time ago._

_I just wanted someone to know that._

Silence and still more silence. The kettle whistled and Jim turned the switch off, waiting for steam to disperse. He missed the creak of the futon as Blair got up, realizing only when Blair was actually out of his room, that the breeze blowing in from the open balcony had changed in texture and added warmth. 

Jim turned as Blair came towards him. Lost, and holding the letter in his hand. 

"Tea?" Jim asked. 

Blair shook the letter at Jim. 

"The one in the evidence room. What does it say?" 

"Four lines." Jim closed his eyes and quoted. "Leslie Conran was the only family I ever had. He was my brother and my best friend. It's my fault he died. I just wanted someone to know that." 

Blair sat down, the papers falling loosely into his lap. Shook his head. 

"Jesus, Jim." 

"You think I overreacted." 

"I think," Jim could see Blair choosing his words very carefully, "I think I need a cup of that tea." He'd been staring at his lap but then looked up. "You made _tea_?" 

"There's no need to sound so surprised, I do on occasion." 

"Since when?" Blair snorted skeptically but took the mug gladly enough. Jim sat down next to him, grateful for the warmth of the liquid, feeling tiny hot drops trembling on the verge of seeping through the porous material. 

Blair gulped the tea down. Jim watched him. 

Blair shook his head again, the motion of his body dislodging the letter. They both watched mesmerized as it floated to the floor. 

"Jim the boy was - " 

"Half crazy? I know." His hands tightened around the mug. "He was made that way." 

Jim took a sip of tea, grateful for the moment of silence. Then Blair inhaled. 

"You're thinking of Lee Brackett, aren't you? Jim, he went rogue, he wasn't from," 

"What if he _was_?" Jim interrupted. "What if he was a... a test?" 

Blair looked at him open mouthed, then down again, considering this for a while. Jim was glad to see it took a while. It helped that someone was taking this as seriously as his gut told him to. 

"I'll admit that it's possible the government has a file on you and your... abilities." Blair's lips twisted into a wry grin. "I'll admit it's a disturbing possibility that you're not the only one on file." 

"My intimate associates." 

"Something like that." Blair leaned down and put the mug on the floor. "Let the blood rush to my head. Ah." He shook his head, dog-like and sat up again, serious. "Jim, how many people know?" 

"I told Simon." And you. You know. 

"You trust Simon." 

I'm trusting you, aren't I? "I trust Simon." 

"Ah." Blair pursed his lips. "Carolyn?" 

Slight twist to his gut. "I only told Simon." 

"And Brackett's in protective custody." Blair thought about it. "Look, you're pretty high profile. I figure if they wanted you they'd have you by now." 

Jim shrugged. 

"That isn't what's scaring you, is it?" 

It wasn't. But Jim just waited to see what Blair would say. 

"Jim," and Blair's eyes were very bright, his voice very soft, "If I were going to give up on this, I think I've already received sufficient incentive. Unless you're forgetting canisters of Ebola and all the guns pointed to my head." 

After a moment Jim smiled back. Feeling some part of what was taut and hurting inside unwind ever so slightly. Slightly, as other defenses reared to take their place. 

Blair reached down for his mug and drained the rest of the tea. "It's late. Do you want me at the station tomorrow?" 

Jim took the mug from his fingers. "No. No, that's fine." 

"'kay. Night then." He yawned and got up, the distortion of his mouth turning his words indecipherable. 

"Sandburg!" Jim called sharply and the man stopped in mid-stretch. 

"Hmm?" 

Jim fought for words. "We don't tell Simon." 

The patent 'what do you take me for, an idiot' look swept over Blair's face before he said politely, "Of course not, Jim. Good night Jim." 

Jim waited till Blair was well inside his room before picking up the papers and taking them outside to the balcony. There he lit a match and watched the letter burn, turning into harmless ash. 

Three handfuls. He scooped them up and blew on them, letting them drift over the city. His ash-covered hands were not the palms he'd seen in the dream, not the hands he'd seen running through his essence. 

Jim shook his head. Anymore of this and he'd be weirder than Sandburg. 

Sandburg. For some reason the name brought a smile to his lips. 

Sandburg. 

_Do you know what you're getting into?_

Jim stood and watched the night sky lighten, waiting for sunrise, wondering if maybe yes, he did know what he was getting into with Sandburg and vice versa. It was a good thought and he held it to himself a while. 

Sunrise. He turned towards the first breath of warm wind. Somewhere in that direction, Carolyn Plummer was checking in, sometime soon she'd be getting on a plane and leaving Cascade. She'd already left him. 

Sandburg... 

_Do you know what you're getting into?_

About then Sandburg's alarm went off, and Jim, anticipating it, suppressed a smile. 

(Epilogue) 

He hadn't seen Blair this excited in a while. "Eli Stoddard -- one of the world's greatest living anthropologists and just happens to be my mentor -- got funding for an expedition to Borneo to study the effects of modern civilization and what it's done to the indigenous people that live there. And he asked me to go with him." 

"Congratulations. You going to do it?" 

Blair grinned awkwardly. "I told him I needed to think about it." 

"What's to think about? Go." 

"You really think I should?" 

"Sure. You kidding me?" A couple of weeks in Borneo sounds like a blast." Even as he'd said it, his nostrils had dilated slightly to catch a whiff of something that seemed like fear-sweat and if he looked he saw Blair perspiring ever so slightly. 

And there it was. "Jim, we're not talking about a couple of weeks here. I mean, this kind of study involves a major commitment of time. At least a year." 

"A year?" Possibly this was some mistake. "What about, you know, our project -- this, uh, sentinel thing?" 

"Jim, I know, but...but this kind of opportunity..." 

And Jim wanted to laugh, even though he couldn't manage a smile. "Then you should do it." 

He felt Blair watching him, felt his own core temperature rise. Turned to the fridge to get something cold before he could - do what he'd told himself he'd never allow himself to. 

"Are you upset?" Blair asked quietly. 

Upset? No. 

"No," said Jim. 

Not upset. Not mad. Just inexplicably weary. And afraid of being reduced to three handfuls of ash, one of which already seemed to be blowing away in the wind. 

~ End. 

== 

Notes: I chose III as a title because the Roman numeral for 3 is written by three I's standing and this is what this story is, three person's tales in one. In every relationship I believe there's a point when one or the other or both separately look at the relationship and make a conscious decision to further the level of trust and intimacy or to step back. I thought it would work for Jim especially in the context of the episode 'Flight'. Many thanks to Becky's episode transcripts for the dialogue quoted in the epilogue. If you want further reasons why I wrote the story, try this URl [http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=spykeraven&itemid=67720](http://www.livejournal.com/talkread.bml?journal=spykeraven&itemid=67720)

Talk to me? 

* * *

End III by Spyke: spyke_raven@yahoo.com

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Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


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